


I find I'm here, this place of bliss

by violentdarlings



Series: sex pollen [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Banter, F/M, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Group Sex, M/M, Missing Scene, OT4, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Season 2, by that I mean no more porno sex, the halcyon days before the team split up and it all went to shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Continuing the relationship precipitated by the sex pollen incident in LA, House and his team negotiate terms, with copious amounts of banter and foursome porn.





	I find I'm here, this place of bliss

**Author's Note:**

> All these years since House aired, and I'm still a slut for the original team. Well, if no one's writing the fic you want to read, better write it yourself.

“So you kissed her,” Cameron says. She’s scowling. It doesn’t look good – well, actually she looks adorable, but in terms of him getting some tonight, it doesn’t look great.

“Technically,” House replies. “And…” Chase snorts.

“Stop beating around the bush and admit you fucked her,” he says around a mouthful of peanut M&Ms. Foreman, folded elegantly into Cameron’s spare armchair, throws a pillow at him.

“You’re disgusting,” he tells his colleague levelly. “Is it the Australian in you or are you just special?” Cameron laughs. She’s not scowling anymore.

“We’re all disgusting,” she points out. “In our own special ways.” House snorts.

“Speak for yourself,” he replies, and steals Chase’s bowl of M&Ms.

 

It had been something of a game, these past few weeks, although a game that even House is willing to admit to not knowing the rules of. After the booze-fuelled emotion session post losing their last dead patient, there had been no more talk of what happened in Los Angeles. They’ve had a decent run of interesting cases since; the gorgeous girl who was actually a gorgeous boy, Alien Hand Guy, the man with the brucellosis and the woman with the gonorrhoea heart. No one had died, except, of course, for Gonorrhoea Heart Lady who was already dead. Interesting cases, and good work, and House’s leg is hurting worse lately but occasionally he forgets about it when Cameron peeps at him over her coffee in the morning, when Foreman and Chase hit the gym together before work and come in freshly showered, energised, and looking all the world like they woke up together.

House knows they didn’t. It doesn’t keep his imagination from running rampant.

He’s found out, through careful digging and subtle inquiry, that the shit at the symposium was developed from the pollen of a newly discovered flower somewhere in the Amazon rainforest. Of next to no medical value, except for its tendency to induce inappropriate orgies, of course. House smirks to himself as he reads the – extremely not his to read at all – preliminary reports on what happened at the symposium.

Some of it is filthy enough to have even him raising an eyebrow.

So Foreman and Chase are working out together – ha, _working out_ – and Cameron smells good, but it still puts House ill at ease with the dynamic in his team. Chase and Foreman might be getting those sweet exercise endorphins, but it’s been two months since LA and House is jonesing _hard_ for some action. He doesn’t know why – Stacy, before she left Princeton Plainsboro, was the first person he’d slept with in years, and he followed that up with a drug-fuelled orgy with his team barely a month later. He doesn’t know how to initiate it again, without the aid of experimental sex pollen, and it’s not like he can have anyone at his place – Wilson has taken up occupancy on the sofa and doesn’t appear to be inclined to leave any time soon.

They’re between cases for the time being, meaning Foreman has been seconded to neurology, Chase to the ICU and Cameron to ED. They’re all working day shifts, meaning that when House _accidentally_ bumps into Cameron downstairs, she agrees with him that a post-work Friday night drink at her house would be a great idea. Her eyes even get a little sparkle in them, the glint that is usually blazing when she’s upstairs and they’ve got a weird case to solve.

They’re all like that, adrenaline junkies. (House really wants to say ‘epinephrine junkies’, but it really doesn’t roll of the tongue in the same way.) He recruits Foreman at the lunch line, Chase in the elevator, and by five pm has teed up a very satisfactory evening. The company of people he can (mostly) tolerate, the promise of some decent liquor, and maybe copping a feel of Chase’s ass while Foreman and Cameron Jell-O-wrestle. A man can dream.

Of course, he didn’t expect the line of questioning to get as brutal as the Spanish Inquisition.

“All right, I slept with Stacy. Satisfied?” he snaps, after several more pointed jabs in his direction and a waggle of Chase’s most sceptical eyebrows. “And it was great.”

“Hmm,” Foreman says, and manages to make it sound both like ‘who cares’ and ‘I’m not a racist, so I will admit white chicks know how to get down, just not _that_ white chick’. Or it’s possible House is projecting.

“I hope you got checked,” Cameron says, in a tone that could almost be called bitchy.

“She’s married,” House points out, although of course he got STD tested, he’s not an idiot.

“If she’s fucking around on him with you, God knows who else she’s rooting,” Chase says, idly perusing one of Cameron’s immunology journals he’s plucked from a shelf. He looks up, when he realises no one has replied. House is staring at him. So are the other two. “What?”

“ _Rooting_?” House asks, in a tone that implies his wombat has gone insane. “I assume it means something different in Kangarooville.” Chase flushes.

“You guys are arseholes,” he mutters, accentuating the ‘r’ in the word crossly – and, it seems, involuntarily. “I should go back to Melbourne.” House sips his bourbon and enjoys the younger man’s annoyance.

“But where would we get our daily dose of obscure Aussie vernacular?” Cameron asks, nudging him gently with her toe. “I only just learned what a ‘servo’ was.”

“A shortening of the word ‘servomotor’?” House wonders aloud. Cameron sniggers.

“A gas station,” she elaborates, and even Foreman startles a bit at that one.

“Is Australia even real?” he rumbles, and House bites back a laugh.

Foreman has so much to say at work, but he’s content, House is noticing, to sit back and enjoy the banter, chipping in occasionally when he has something to say. It’s a stark contrast to how he is at the hospital, and House doesn’t know if he likes it or not. It means that Chase and Cameron carry a lot of the conversation, but they have that added level of intimacy, that they were together as lovers before the symposium, and they don’t seem to mind.

House could almost doze off like this, carried gently by the rhythm of their voices, his leg stretched out comfortably, with a small hot pack on his thigh that Cameron insisted on placing there. It actually helps, not that he’d tell her that, not so much with the pain but it loosens the muscle some, which in turn makes it easier to move around. House is a physician, and he’s willing to admit that non-pharmacological measures to alleviate pain do work, to a degree. It’s just so much bloody effort to get up in the middle of the night when his leg is killing him. Easier to pop a Vicodin and fall back into troubled sleep.

He catches something about ‘grandpa over there dozing off’ and opens his eyes instinctively, blinking a bit in the low light. “Talking to me?” he asks a little fuzzily, and they all laugh at him. Chase is the loudest, as per usual; Cameron is giggling, one hand over her mouth as if to stifle it, and Foreman’s smirking. They look so damn happy, and if House turns his head just a bit he can get them all in his field of vision, lit up like fireworks, and just as difficult to look away from.

“I’m glad I cause you so much joy,” he snarks at them, but there’s no real ire in it. Dare he say it, it’s even fond.

“You’re an ass,” Foreman says dryly, and sets down his glass. He and Cameron are drinking red, like proper grown-ups, in wine glasses and everything. Chase, in stark contrast, is sneaking gulps straight out of House’s bottle of bourbon when he thinks no one is looking. His cheeks are pink, but he’s not drunk. None of them are. “Where were we?”

“We were talking about Stacy,” Chase reminds him. House groans.

“Can we not?” he asks. “She’s gone. It’s over. It was over years ago, by the way.”

“Aw, House,” Cameron sighs. She’s a soft touch. “You are so old.” Ouch. Maybe not as much of a soft touch tonight as usual, then.

“Thanks,” House snipes back. “See if I ever have hot orgy sex with you ever again.”

So maybe he didn’t exactly intend to say that.

“We come to the elephant in the room,” Foreman says dryly. House ducks his head. For some reason, they’re all looking at him, with varying degrees of nervousness, apprehension, and hope. (The last one is mostly just Cameron.)  A thought occurs to him.

“Have you all been waiting for me to bring it up?” he asks, outraged. “Why do I have to do all the work?”

“You’re the boss,” Chase says, like that solves everything.

“Not _here_ ,” House snaps, and it takes him by surprise, until he realises just how true it is. He’s not the boss. “Not for this.”

Cameron’s eyes are suspiciously soft looking, like she wants to give him a hug. “We’ll take a vote,” she says, apropos of nothing, and stands up. House stays where he is, pleased at this turn of events that requires him to put in no effort whatsoever.

When Cameron comes back, she’s holding a notepad and pen, and an oversized mug. She sits down on the floor, rips a piece of notepaper into eight pieces and starts scribbling on them. “Here.” She hands two pieces to House first; one says yes, in Cameron’s hurried script, and the other says no. “Put your answer into the cup,” she says, and House has to admire the brilliance of her idea. With every piece of paper in her handwriting, no one’s answer can be identifiable. “If there’s even one no, we don’t do it. No one has to know who didn’t want to, or who did.”

Consent is important to Cameron, very important. Consent, and fairness; House wonders where she learnt those harsh little lessons. “I don’t pay you enough,” he says, and drops his answer into the cup, tightly folded; the other goes straight into the pocket of his jeans. “You really are quite brilliant.” Cameron glows like he’s just offered her the moon.

“Thank you,” she says, seemingly genuinely touched, and drops her own answer into the mug, her sweet face smoothing from its troubled lines of before. Foreman hesitates over his for a moment; Chase doesn’t, and House exhales, as though the pressure in the room has suddenly decreased, when a moment ago it was almost too tight to breathe.

Cameron plucks the four pieces of paper out and unfolds them, setting each one on her coffee table, her hand trembling just a little. House leans over despite himself, realising in the same instant that Chase and Foreman are doing the same.

Four yeses, as clear as day.

House grins, and it’s not cruel, or sarcastic. It’s just a grin. “You freaky sons of bitches,” he says with approval. Cameron goes pink, but she’s pleased as anything, and Chase’s ears are red, and Foreman actually looks happy, like this is something that he wants.

“Well, we learned from the best,” he says dryly.

“Damn right you did,” House retorts proudly, and drinks the last of his bourbon.

They switch to soda after that. Well, Chase does, and Foreman sips water with an air of superiority that House just knows is going to turn to aggressive sexy wrestling when Chase eventually picks up on it. Cameron suggests rules, because she seems to be the de facto boss of this, maybe because she’s the only woman, maybe because she’s a bossy little thing. House suggests the latter to her, and it gets him a slap on the ass when he gets up to take a leak.

(He kind of likes it, but he doesn’t know how to ask her to do it again.)

It’s strange, like coming to an agreement has drained all the tension out of the room. Cameron’s list of rules are written in messy handwriting but are breathtakingly simple, and maybe that’s why they need her because House and Chase would jump into anything without care or regret, and Foreman’s not enough to hold them back. Cameron, though, is a tiny Stalin in cute shoes, and even House doesn’t like to piss her off.

At least, not like this. Work is a different story.

“One, we keep it separate from work,” Cameron reads aloud, but that’s as far as she gets because Chase picks up on Foreman’s smugness and, in lieu of sensible, adult discussion, tugs the other man in by his tie for a make-out session that has House rolling his eyes because come on, surely one of them needs to breathe at eventually.

“It’s basic human biology,” he’s pointing out when they finally break for air.

“I win,” Chase says smugly.

“You kissed first,” Foreman points out. His shirt is rumpled; Chase’s hair is a mess. Funny, that House wants them, when he was never so interested in guys before. Cameron, sure. She’s gorgeous, and female, which is usually his standard for sexual partners. But he doesn’t want her, not by herself. Not when he can have them all.

“So?”

“So I win.”

“Boys,” Cameron says wryly over their arguing, shooting House an amused and somewhat conspiratorial glance. “Does it really matter?”

“Yes,” Chase and Foreman snap in unison, before going back to their argument. House just sighs, and grabs Foreman by the elbow, towing the other man towards Cameron’s bedroom – and by extension, Chase as well, because they’re snapping at one another like irate turtles.

“It’s almost like sex can’t be initiated by anything other than aggression,” Cameron murmurs, turning on the lamp, tossing her spare pillows to the floor. She’s followed along in their wake and is examining the knot of Chase, House and Foreman like they’re under a microscope. “I don’t think that’s normal.”

“None of us are normal,” House points out, and separates himself from the two other men. “Just kiss already,” he tells them, exasperated, but to his surprise they quiet at once.

“It makes more sense to be allies than enemies,” Chase says, apropos of nothing, and Foreman claps him on the back.

“You take the little one, I’ll take the mean one?” he asks, and when Chase nods, they both move.

Cameron and Chase are easy; they fit together prettily enough, her stretching up on her toes to kiss him, his hands on her dainty waist. Foreman is a different matter; House eyes him for a moment, because they are the two that do not make sense, damaged in ways that don’t slot together as neatly as Chase and House’s do, or House and Cameron. (Chase and Foreman make a weird kind of sense all their own.) But House isn’t sure about Foreman. More to the point, he isn’t sure about what Foreman wants.

“They’re cute tougher,” Foreman says, nodding to his kissing colleagues and verbalising precisely what House was thinking. “We’re not.” House nods. He tears his eyes away from the delightful picture that Cameron and Chase make to meet Foreman’s eyes; familiar, with that little gleam of sardonic amusement he so often has, and the heat of his body, close enough to touch, if House reaches out.

Oh, he wants Foreman. That was never in doubt.

“I’ve always thought society’s preoccupation with physical attractiveness was a load of bullshit,” House says conversationally. “Function over fashion, that’s me. So what do you say, Foreman? Don’t tell me you’ve never ever fantasised about shutting me up with your –”

“No,” Foreman says, unable to restrain a snigger. “With a gag, maybe. But not like that.”

“Kinky,” House says approvingly. He’s aware they’re just standing there, grinning at each foolishly, before Foreman relaxes with a sigh and steps forward, taking House’s face in his hands.

“You really are an ass,” he mutters, and House closes the last few inches between their lips.

“Takes one to know one,” he mumbles, and he hadn’t expected this, that he could laugh his way through sex, that it could be so damn fun. It was like that with Stacy, in the past. Not recently.

Cameron kisses like it’s a game, like something sweet; a pina colada, or strawberry wine. Chase is deep, quick, and biting, single malt, aged to perfection. But Foreman, he kisses sedately, elegantly, like the Bordeaux he was drinking earlier, like he’s aware of the goal but is resolutely ignoring it in favour of the ride. House can count on one hand how many men he’s kissed, but he thinks Foreman might be the best, tongue stroking over House’s, strong hand at the nape of his neck, drawing him close. House’s hand is white-knuckled on his cane, and if not for the leg, the damn throb of macerated muscle, House would drop to his knees and find out what else Foreman likes.

“You know, we don’t have to do more than this,” Foreman mutters, when he pulls away from House’s mouth to bite his ear. House swallows an obscenity and tilts his head, just enough to see one dark eye gazing at him seriously.

“Why do you say that?” he asks. Foreman shrugs.

“You’re trembling.” So he is, House notes, but it’s not from surprise, or fear, or gay panic. He’s only just now noticing how much his leg is objecting. Sometimes it takes him by surprise.

“Hurts to stand up for so long,” he says through clenched teeth, his hand so tense on his cane he thinks his fingers might break, and he’s on the verge of falling. But, like magic, Foreman is at one elbow and Cameron is at the other.

“Bed,” Cameron says firmly, and House grins at her, a little dizzy.

“Can’t argue with the General,” he tells her, and it’s nice, to have someone take off his jeans for him, to cradle his bad leg in careful surgeon’s hands as he swings it onto the bed – into the bed, Cameron turning down the sheets. Chase is there to hand him a Vicodin, and House dry swallows the pill as he to stretch out on Cameron’s bed that smells sweet and floral like the stuff she uses in her hair. It’s nice, but suddenly it’s not just nice anymore, because Cameron and Chase have arranged themselves into a neat 69 no more than six inches away from him, and Foreman, broad-chested, down to just his boxers, is warm and absurdly attractive and close, scooting House closer to Chase and Cameron so he can fit on the bed.

Cameron’s ass is up in the air, her legs folded around Chase’s head, lending House an extremely enjoyable view of her sweet little ass and pussy. He’s seen it before, of course, but it’s a view worth repeating. House rests a hand on her ass, giving her a moment to tell him no if she wants, but she’s moaning quite happily around Chase’s cock and reaches a hand back to pat his. Non-verbal, but consent nonetheless.

He gets two fingers in her pussy, crooking his fingers into the rougher pad of her G-spot, and he hears Cameron whine, sharp and high in her throat, muffled but distinct, before House is distracted by Foreman. House’s own cock, rendered rather inert by pain a moment ago, perks up at once when the younger man stretches out on top of House, lying a little to the side so his right thigh isn’t crushed.

“Fuck,” House groans despite himself. The sensation of being pinned down shorts out his brain for a moment; Foreman’s not heavy but he is _solid_ , is present, and it whites out the happy place in whatever animal part of House’s brain likes to feel safe. Foreman has lost his boxers, and House is naked, and it should be awkward that their dicks are touching except fuck, no, it isn’t, and House goes from zero to sixty in about three seconds flat.

 Foreman is still smirking, the bastard. House wants to say something snarky to him, but he’s distracted by how good it feels, to have someone on top of him, his cock grinding against Foreman’s. it’s enough, and not enough; House wants _more_ , the press of long, skilled fingers inside of him, the rougher slide of flesh on flesh. (Sure, he’s never been with a guy before, but Stacy had owned a strap-on, and they’d used it well.) It’s not a night for that, though.

Cameron, the lucky bitch with her multiple orgasms, comes first, which is enough to distract all of them. House still has three fingers in her; if her whimpering cries hadn’t been enough to inform him, the rhythmic clench of her around his fingers a dead giveaway. Chase is smirking, sitting up to arrange Cameron on his lap as she afterglows happily.

“You’re such a fucking giver,” House tells him over Foreman’s shoulder. It’s the first words in a while; it was mostly moaning before. “I don’t mean that as a compliment.” Foreman laughs, his head dropping onto House’s chest; House feels the vibrations of it in his sternum. They’re not grinding anymore, and it hardly seems to matter, just two naked dudes laughing at their dumb colleague. Like sex is not just slot A and tab B, as House had always assumed, but more like a tangle of neurons, stopping and starting, each fragment connected to the rest.

“I’ll still take it as one,” Chase replies breezily, and Cameron opens her eyes, still vaguely lust-drunk.

“You can have all the compliments,” she promises, and kisses Chase on the nose. “Let me up, I want to get in there.”

‘In there’ apparently means sandwiched between Foreman and House, giving House possibly the best blowjob of his life while Foreman fucks her from behind, slow and easy at first, although House can see the strain in his face from holding back. It’s hard to keep track; House can’t tear his eyes away from Cameron, the wickedness in her eyes as she fills her mouth with his cock, the languid slide of her tongue along the underside along with the finger teasing his perineum enough to drive him mad. “Cameron, you fucking tease,” he pants out, and Chase laughs, his lips worrying a lazy hickey into the side of House’s neck.

“I could have told you that,” he points out. The younger man is stretched out beside House, touching himself with a complete lack of shame. House wouldn’t mind having him in his mouth, but he’s too busy trying not to lose his mind. Cameron somehow manages to smirk, before drawing back from House’s cock, wrapping her hand around him before he can whine about the loss of her mouth. She knows him so well.

“Foreman, if you don’t hurry up and fucking _fu_ ck me, I will ruin your coffee for the next month,” she says, breathless, and he must listen to her, because Cameron closes her eyes, murmurs, “Yes,” victoriously, and drops her head down to continue her blowjob, faster now and more intense.

“Simultaneous orgasms are a myth,” House points out, watching the sway of Cameron’s breasts as Foreman pounds into her, his dark hands gripping her pale hips, the strands of chestnut hair falling into her eyes. The details help, keep him grounded, because he’s a hair’s breadth from losing it, and coming in someone’s mouth really is impolite without warning them, not that House himself is known as a bastion of politeness.

“You talk too much,” Foreman grits out, the muscles in his neck and shoulder tense, his knuckles pale as he slams into Cameron. House can feel the shockwaves of it through her body. “Cameron, I’m –”

“Clit,” Chase says lazily, and Foreman curses, reaching down and around to touch Cameron where they’re joined. It must work, because her body goes rigid, locks, and on the wave of her peak House comes too, both hands in her gorgeous hair, the spill of it over his hands the last thing he sees before his eyes close.

When he opens them again, Chase is curled against him, hard cock against House’s hip. House reaches down without a thought, takes him in hand, and it’s a quick job; four strokes and Chase goes off like a rocket, as though he’d been deliberately waiting, keeping himself at the edge until the time was right. The thought of it is outrageously attractive, as is the idea of tying Chase up and keeping him edged until he begs for mercy, but House’s brain, usually so active, stutters at that thought, the image of it so vivid in his mind’s eye that he spends a solid minute with his hand inactive on Chase before the younger man swats him away to go clean up.

Cameron gets her third before Foreman finally gives up the ghost, probably precipitated a little by Chase nonchalantly smacking him on the ass on the way to the bathroom. House lies there, hand sticky but body sated, and watches the play of emotions over Cameron’s face when she climaxes, drinking it in with the same fervour he absorbs everything else around him. Touch is great, but sight, now, sight is in a class all its own. House learns more about Cameron from watching her come than he did in the first year of knowing her. And if she keeps eye contact with him the whole time, her head pillowed on his good thigh as he strokes her hair and the soft skin at the nape of her neck, well. He’s inclined to be tender with her. He’s still not entirely sure why.

 

“Maybe next time we could try triple penetration,” Cameron says brightly as she flits around her bedroom. House chokes on air. She never fails to surprise him. “Or a spit roast?”

“You’re gonna kill me,” House rasps when he can breathe again, in the middle of this absurd puppy pile of limbs that constitutes himself and his team. Chase and Foreman are already asleep, snuggled together like adorable baby marmosets. Chase is the little spoon. Of course he is. House casts them a smug glance. “Who’s old now?” he says dryly.

Cameron just smirks and tucks his vial of Vicodin under his pillow as she climbs into bed. She’s slipped into a worn man’s shirt; one House thinks might be a relic of her husband’s. It doesn’t impinge on her loveliness in the slightest, and it’s cloud soft against his skin. “Trying to get me high?” House quips, shaking his Vicodin at her. Cameron fluffs up her half of the pillow they’re sharing. Chase and Foreman have claimed the rest, the bastards.

“In case you need it in the night,” she replies, and ducks her head under the quilt to scrutinise his leg quickly. “I’m making sure it looks comfortable,” she replies, a touch defensively, when House quirks a brow at her.

Making sure it looks _comfortable_. Jesus Christ. House has never met anyone quite like Allison Cameron. It would infuriate him, like it usually does, except it’s been a long time since anyone cared that much about his comfort. “Don’t make a fuss,” he mutters, unable to meet her eyes.

“Will you two shut the hell up?” Chase says drowsily, from across the bed and across Foreman’s shoulder. “It’s four a.m.”

“Not everyone passes out straight after sex,” House snarks back at him, but ruins the general effect of the comment by yawning immediately after. Cameron smiles at him, and turns off the lamp, snuggling her ass into House’s groin as she tugs the quilt up over them both. “You’re a dear,” he tells her, or maybe he dreams that.

Maybe he dreams her reply: “So are you, Greg.” But that’s okay too.

He knows she means it.


End file.
